


Taller

by bri_ness



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: F/M, Let's go with it, M/M, POV First Person, Sonja POV, This is barely even a story but you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bri_ness/pseuds/bri_ness
Summary: Sonja reflects on her relationship with Even.





	Taller

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those things that just kind of came out and therefore might be very bad, but hey, I'm going to share it anyway. I hope you like it.

I was taller than him.

Louder, and a bit braver because he didn’t know he needed to be brave yet. I squirted hair gel onto my hands, ran my fingers through his hair like I did this kind of thing all the time.

“See?” I said as I played with his hair, shaping it into something new. “Look who you could be.”

Maybe we didn’t see the same thing.

\---

“He’s quiet sometimes.”

I never know what to say to Isak. It’s annoying that he’s calling now. _Yes, that’s who he is. And he’s yours now, so can you please figure this out on your own and leave me alone? You wanted to before._

“That’s not always bad.”

“No, I don’t mean—I just want him to trust me with what he’s thinking.”

I do like Isak. It’s pretty noble of me.

Even was so quiet at fourteen, so much that it was stressful. So much that because I was taller, louder, braver, I wanted to pull everything out of him. What are you thinking, because I know your thoughts are interesting, and compassionate, or at the very least, funny? What are you feeling, because you’re a quiet, sensitive, artsy boy, and I’ve always believed that’s the right kind of boy to love? Who are you, because I think the world would better if it knew you?

With gel on my hands and in his hair, we kissed in my bedroom. 

\---

There was ink underneath his fingernails, and I was more into it than I should have been.

Because he was an artist, a romantic: beautiful and passionate. Unconventional.

It was fun to get caught up in it.

It was actually really fun to love him.

\---

I like art too, but Even's better at it.

I admire it: the craft and precision. Playing with my mom's sewing machine, I'd make my own clothes. He used to say I should do it more.

Even experiences it. He sees what's not there, or if he doesn't, he imagines it. And it always makes him feel something, because he can turn anything into a story. It's good for his dreams, and maybe one day it’ll be good for his career. It’s often bad for his brain.

I see him at Mikael's art show, which of course I do. Isak is beside him, scowl turning into a smile whenever he lights up, talks too fast, is so  _much_ —enthusiastic and invested, but also annoying. He just seems so annoying now.

Isak's endeared, and he loves him. I probably don’t anymore.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that colour before.”

“It’s blue.”

“No, no, it has far more depth than that. Nuance. Blue is peaceful, melancholy, this is—I don’t know, angry? What do you think?”

There is a very, very long pause.

“I don’t get how you see all this stuff.”

“By looking, I guess. Maybe not everyone looks.”

And then, it’s a whisper from Isak.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

Even takes Isak’s hand, kisses it, and they move away from me together.

I don’t think they even noticed me.

\---

“I don’t know what’s happening.”

Except we did: Even had a diagnosis, and a treatment plan, and a support system, so everything was going to be fine. We’d pull through.

 _It’s ok_ , I told him, more times than I should have. _This is what’s happening, and here is what we’re going to do._

I really, really thought I understood. I did so much research. And I knew him: I was the one who pulled him out.

When I’m annoyed now, I remember him tucked under my covers, the way he declared “I don’t know what’s happening” even when he could barely speak.

He was trying to be louder than me.

\---

There was ink underneath his fingernails, and I was furious and terrified because he wouldn’t wash his hands.

\---

I wasn’t really surprised when he cheated on me, any of the times that he did it. People were surprised that I was upset.

_You knew it wasn't working. You saw how he looked at him: he was honest about how he looked at him. You weren't even happy together._

But we were, we were until we weren't. I could mourn that. I could miss it. I could want it back.

\---

And I got pissed, because I put the time in. I did the work. I pulled him out, and when he couldn’t understand that person, I sat with him, comforted him. I made plans, and I helped, and I loved him, it was never that I didn’t love him.

So it wasn’t fair for this other guy to come along and undo everything because he had a cute smile and wasn’t me. He didn’t know anything, and Even was going to get hurt. I was already hurt.

I regret what I said to Isak, but I don’t regret the anger. I’d earned it.

\---

“Of all the gin joints….”

I smile at Even. It’s been so long since I’ve done that.

“You serve gin now?”

He grins. “For a special customer, I can check what we’ve got out back.”

Like it hasn’t been over a year since we talked.

“Do you get a break or anything?”

I don’t know why I needed to talk to him today, but it was a conviction upon waking up. And I’ve always been good at follow-through.

“They can spare me for fifteen minutes, sure.”

We take a corner table: him with an herbal tea, me with a black coffee. I wonder if he’s still trying to limit his caffeine, but I don’t ask.

“How’s Isak?” I say for a place to start.

Even raises his eyebrows. “You tell me. You talk to him more than I do.”

What am I even supposed to say to that?

I stare at my coffee as Even continues, “He feels guilty about calling you, I think. So he tells me.” 

“He just worries.”

“I know.” Even takes a long swig of his tea. “But he’s really good, thank you.”

“For?”

“Asking.”

I shrug.

“Sonja.”

“Mm?”

“You don’t do anything by accident.”

Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Ok?”

“So, you didn’t accidentally walk into the café where your ex works.”

“…No.”

“No.”

“What is it that you want to say?”

I’m here. I need to follow-through.

“Am I the villain?”

I’ve surprised him, and I’m almost proud. It’s so hard to surprise someone who is always surprising everyone else.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I tried to control you? Make you into this person I wanted you to be, or pressured you into things—I’m sorry, for all of it.” Even smiles. He really is annoying. “ _What_?”

“Do you even remember me at fourteen? I was shy.”

I roll my eyes. “You were quiet, but you weren’t shy.”

“No, see, it’s that: telling me how I feel. I _was_ shy. You were the first person who made me believe my thoughts were worth sharing.”

“But I didn’t always like them.”

“Well, neither did I. We both tried to twist them.”

“Maybe.”

We take a moment to drink.

“I appreciate the apology, but Sonja, you’re not the villain. We just didn’t work. And I was pretty shitty to you in the end.”

I want to laugh. “Yeah, you were. But you’re not my villain, either.”

“Ok. Good.”

I smile at him again. It already feels easier.

“Ok.”

I’m too good at follow-through.

It never ended with Even, not really. Because Isak keeps calling, and I keep seeing them around, so I keep reliving my role in his story. I’ve hated myself for being controlling and angry. I’ve seen myself as concerned and loving. I’m remembering, and analyzing, trying to place him on my story and myself in his.

That’s the problem, though. We don’t belong in each other's stories now.

I politely tell Even that I would appreciate it if Isak stopped calling me, and if he doesn’t understand, he nods like he does. I know I won’t be back to this café. I’ll see him, of course—the world is too small and coincidental to avoid that—but it can be just that: a hi and how are you, followed quickly by a goodbye.

I am not taller than him anymore, but who I am in relation to him also doesn’t matter anymore.

I’m moving on.


End file.
